


A Walk to Death

by OrionRigel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 08:56:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15882780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionRigel/pseuds/OrionRigel
Summary: Just my take on how Harry's trek to Voldemort could have been.





	A Walk to Death

     “Harry Potter,” he idly thought out loud, “the savior of the Wizarding World.” It sounded wrong coming from his mouth. His mouth formed a crooked smile. He hated it, the title bestowed upon him by Dumbledore- the man who raised him as a martyr. This was it he rapidly thought, the death of the heroine soon ending this twisted fairytale. He could already see Rita Skeeter jumping up and down with joy at the thought of a juicy article.

     He absentmindedly fingered the ring on his hand, tracing his thumb along the crack running down the ‘Resurrection Stone’ decorating the ring. He hummed as his feet tracked the trail leading to his death. This was the same trail Malfoy and Fang had accompanied him to, he noted. The same forest Hermione and he had freed Buckbeak in. The same forest that stood next to the Shrieking Shack he first met Sirius Black, his godfather.

     He paused, listening to the whistling of the trees and the leaves scattering as it cleared his way. Even the dead seemed eager for his death he thought in morbid humor. Sirius Black, the man who he wished to call father, the man who died for him, Harry Potter- Son of James, the Marauder, Prongs. He raised his hand and the black stone gleamed ominously under the dim light peaking through the heavy clearing of branches. It wouldn’t hurt… would it? After all, it was just a fairytale and if it did, it would just be a moment. He was going to die anyway. He turned the stone once, his eyes never leaving his distorted reflection on the stone. Then he turned it twice, a gust of wind picked up and the leaves danced along the clearing. Finally, he turned it thrice palming the stone with his sweaty hands.

     For a moment, he stood silently and heard laughter, strangely muted in his own ears. Soon he realized that it was him, who was laughing. He fisted his bangs as his laughter turned full-blown worthy of a madman. Then he straightened, slowly and deliberately he traced the wood of his wand. It was silent, too silent. The silence was unnerving. Was he too loud? His throat bobbed as he swallowed, a trail of sweat forming near his scar. He flinched as the stone on his left hand seemed to tremble and he recoiled from it as if burned. His arm holding his wand jumped up pointing at the stone.

     Then he heard a whisper, and his head whipped around to find its source. He turned and the leaves under his feet crackled. _“Harry"_  it seemed to mutter. The whispers grew into an echo and the echoes into a roar that seemed to grasp and twist his mind. Soon, he was clawing at his ears, hopelessly failing to block the noise. His mind snapped back when he realized that it was dark, pitch black. His hand trailed down to his eyes, only to find it closed, then he slowly raised his head, the noise gradually retreating. His eyes opened, lingering on the leaves for a moment. Then as his hand followed his gaze, he stepped back in shock.

     Hand trembling he breathed, _“Sirius…”_


End file.
